


Revelations, Conversations and Consideration

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Acephobia, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Aromantic, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Attempted Sexual Assault, Biphobia, Bisexual Character, Bisexuality, Caring, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Food, Kissing, Love, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Minor Violence, No Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:24:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4463636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some random scenes relating to Moriarty and Moran’s relationship and their sexual/romantic orientations and some of the issues they face connected with them – their first (and second) kiss, and some confessions; Moran tries to learn more about Moriarty’s sexual and romantic orientations; a friend of Moriarty’s may not be such a good friend after all; the aftermath of this.</p>
<p>This is a modern day AU set (vaguely) in the present day but still generally based on the canon/Ritchie!verse versions of Moriarty and Moran.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not generally a fan of modern day AUs but one of the few advantages it does have is that I can use the proper words to refer to their sexual/romantic orientations which I can’t really do in the Victorian era.  
> Overall warnings for: biphobia, acephobia, attempted sexual assault (forced kissing and groping only) by another character, brief violence, brief sexual references (no actual sex).

_In which there is a first (and second) kiss, and some confessions_

 

    Moran kisses the professor and… nothing in particular happens to Moriarty. His world does not seem to spin off its axis and leave him giddy; his heart does not seem to explode with joy; he feels nothing different in his nether regions; no long dormant instinct surges to the fore and urges him to respond in kind. There _is_ a vague thought in the back of his mind that Moran’s lips are rather dry and that the colonel could probably benefit from the use of some lip balm but that is hardly anything special.

     He finds himself simply frozen there with the colonel’s lips pressed against his and his own hand fisted in Moran’s shirt as if he is unwittingly clinging on for dear life, wondering what on earth he is supposed to do next. Nothing he has read or seen of kissing prepared him for this moment when it actually happens; when Moran is looking at him with longing and desire and trepidation too in his cool blue eyes; when Moran’s mouth is pressed to his. As kisses go this is no doubt a rather chaste one but even so it leaves Moriarty perplexed as to what should happen next.

     Moran pulls away from him slightly, remaining close but – perhaps somewhat mercifully – breaking the kiss.

     “I’m sorry,” he says, disappointment evident in his voice. “You obviously didn’t want that, I’m so sorry.”

     “I did not…” Moriarty clears his throat slightly. “I did not hate it; I simply… I don’t know how I am supposed to respond.”

     “You respond with whatever feels natural.” Moran looks up at him again, smiling tentatively.

     “But this _isn’t_ natural!” Moriarty cries, gesturing vaguely into the air with both hands. “I don’t mean… kissing between two men; I mean… kissing _anyone_ in such a way is not natural to me.”

     Now Moran looks confused more than disappointed. “Why not?” he asks; an honest query; there is no scorn or disbelief that Moriarty can identify in his tone.

    “Because… I am asexual and aromantic.” He meets Moran’s gaze as he says this, as if daring Moran to challenge this statement; daring him to deny it or mock him even.

      But Moran says nothing at first, not even coming out with the tired and extremely unfunny ‘joke’ enquiring _‘if you’re asexual does that mean you reproduce by budding?_ ’. Moran only looks back at Moriarty still, his blue eyes wide. “Asexual?”

     “And aromantic.”

     “That means you don’t…” Moran’s eyes narrow as he considers the words, trying to work them out, perhaps comparing them with his own sexuality.

     “Don’t feel sexual attraction towards anyone; likewise with romantic attraction.”

     “I see.”

     “ _Do_ you?” Moriarty queries, perhaps a bit more sharply than he intended. He is far more used to having his sexual and romantic orientations questioned or denied or mocked in some way though, even by those who are well meaning. Moran’s calm, seemingly accepting response is far more unusual and perhaps far more than Moriarty had dared to hope for.

     “Well, no, I mean, not directly.” Moran gives him a small, brief smile. “I’m bisexual, Professor, you know that; these ain’t things I reckon I can understand myself, but… I guess it makes sense. I guess I’ve always suspected you weren’t really interested in anyone like I am, even when we were…” He thinks about some of the sexual acts they have indulged in together. In the light of Moriarty’s admission now suddenly such behaviour seems rather embarrassing and awkward. “Even when we were… being intimate.”

     Moriarty laughs at Moran’s sudden delicacy of expression. “You can say ‘having sex’, Moran. I am no delicate little flower and I am not going to run away screaming from even the words associated with sex.”

    Moran laughs too at this, which seems finally to evaporate some of the tension that had threatened to settle between them. “Early on, when we’d only just met, I heard the rumours about you. Some people reckoned you were gay, and I s’pose I hoped you were, but then… the more I got to know you the less it felt like that was it, and you’re not really, are you?”

     “Not exactly. There were, as you know, one or two ‘experiments’ with men before you, and my younger brother, well he is openly gay and seems to believe I am much the same as him,  but really, no, I do not think I am gay. I think to describe myself as such would imply things I do not feel.”

     “I’ve made a complete fool of myself then, haven’t I?” Moran says, with a degree of bitterness directed entirely towards himself. “I guess we’ve been intimate enough that I convinced myself… maybe you wanted something more after all  - more than to just relieve your ‘biological urges’ with me; that maybe you wanted…”

     “Romance?” Moriarty queries when Moran fails to complete the sentence. It sounds strange to him to speak it aloud. Such a commonplace word really - one frequently casually bandied about by society at large under the misguided assumption that this is something universal and experienced by all - yet one that he had always thought had no real place in his world. But Moran’s behaviour has made it apparent that what he had assumed was primarily only sexual desire on Moran’s part is something else; that in short, the colonel is _in love_ with him, which now obliges Moriarty to consider his own feelings towards romance in greater depth. No longer is romance something that is irrelevant to him; now it is a matter that needs to be addressed and addressed rather urgently if he is not to irreparably damage his close relationship with the colonel. Whatever he feels, or does not feel, for Moran, he values the bond he has formed with him, something that – whatever it is – has clearly gone well beyond a typical employer/employee relationship. No matter what he would not wish to lose Moran’s trust or friendship.

      Moran swallows thickly; this is the only answer he can give but it is confirmation enough. He cannot bring himself to speak of love.

     “I am not…” Moriarty pauses, considering how best to phrase this. “Sebastian, I am not necessarily repulsed by the idea of engaging in gestures or acts that are generally coded as being ‘romantic’, nor of trying out such a relationship with you. I simply have no idea how one goes about such a thing.”

     Moran laughs. “I’m not entirely sure I know myself,” he confesses.

     “Then perhaps…” Moriarty puts his hand to Moran’s cheek and gently turns Moran’s face towards his again. “We might experiment further together?”

      Moran breaks into a smile. “Yes sir.” His eyes slip closed as Moriarty leans forward and kisses him now. It is a hesitant, clumsy kiss; there is no real passion or heat behind it and certainly no tongue is involved. It is little more than a press of Moriarty’s lips against his and Moran does not dare try to make it anything more, fearful that if he was to do so he might frighten Moriarty off and genuinely ruin everything. But still it is oddly sweet in its uncertainty; in the real tenderness and affection it conveys purely in the fact that the professor has kissed him at all.

     When Moran opens his eyes again, his lips parting slightly only when Moriarty finally pulls back from him, he puts his hand to the professor’s face, trying to gauge from his reaction whether this gesture is welcome. That Moriarty does not flinch or grimace or pull back; that he is even still smiling suggests that he is comfortable enough with it, so Moran rests his palm against the professor’s cheek. “I’d like that,” he says.


	2. Chapter 2

_In which Moran tries to learn more about Moriarty’s sexual and romantic orientation, and there are further confessions_

 

     Moriarty has lost his slippers. It is probably that blasted dog who has run off with them again to fill them with slobber and turn them into nothing more than a couple of expensive chew toys, for the infernal beast seems to delight in destroying the professor’s things while somehow always managing to avoid wrecking any of Moran’s possessions.

     Having no luck in his search elsewhere in the house, only the study is left for Moriarty to check. If there is no joy in there then he will have to assume the slippers have been dragged out into the garden and likely chewed up and buried out there in which case they can stay out there and Moran will have to go and buy him a replacement pair.

     He pushes open the study door, aware that the colonel has been in there for some time using the computer. “Moran, have you-”

     Moran, having been leaning over the desk with his chin resting upon his palm and his elbow on the desktop, sits up with a start and promptly slams the laptop lid down.

    “Seen my slippers?” Moriarty finishes before his brain entirely catches up with what has just happened. “What are you doing?”

     The colonel sits at the desk, his cheeks seeming rather flushed and with a sheepish expression on his face. Were Moran anyone else Moriarty might suspect he has just walked in on Moran looking at internet pornography but then it _is_ Moran and he would likely not be so embarrassed about such a thing.

     “Nothing.” Moran compresses his lips into a tight line and does not quite meet the professor’s eye.

     “I see.” Moriarty crosses his arms across his chest and continues to stare at Moran. “So you are sitting there looking guilty and refusing to let me see the computer screen over nothing?”

    “I was just…” Moran narrows his eyes as he ponders what to say. He scratches at his beard for a moment. “Doing research.”

    “Into what?” Moriarty drops his hands to his sides and approaches the desk slowly. “Sebastian?”

    With a small resigned sigh, Moran lifts the laptop lid before bringing back what he had been perusing before the interruption.

     Moriarty moves behind him, resting his hands lightly on Moran’s shoulders as he leans over to look at the screen. There he sees a multitude of tabs open in the web browser, displaying a variety of headings – Asexuality Awareness; What is aromanticism?; How I realised I was asexual, and more in this line.

     Moriarty straightens up again and swivels Moran’s chair around so that the colonel is facing him. “Why?”

     Moran shrugs slightly and glances away. “I just… wanted to know more, about what you feel; what you want, and don’t want.”

      Moriarty smiles and brushes Moran’s cheek with his thumb. “My sweet boy, if you wish to know what I feel or what I want then you need only _ask_ me.”

     “I know, but…” Moran darts a brief glance up at Moriarty’s face. “I don’t want you to feel like… I was pestering you, or like… I was uneducated about it.” He looks up again, his gaze lingering longer this time. “I don’t want to say or do something to offend you.”

     Moriarty laughs softly. “And your desire to know this was so humiliating because…?”

     “I don’t know, I s’pose I thought… maybe you’d think I didn’t really believe you or something if I needed to look it all up.”

     “ _Do_ you believe me?” Moriarty asks, tilting Moran’s chin up, obliging Moran to meet his questioning gaze.

     “Of course.” Moran answers without hesitating or trying to shift his eyes. “I mean, I don’t entirely understand you, but I believe you.”

     “What do you not understand?” Moriarty asks with the calm patience he has often used during his teaching career.

     “Why you want to be with me if you don’t feel no sexual or romantic attraction for me.”

      Now Moriarty shrugs. He releases his hold on Moran and moves to sit down upon the leather sofa to the side of the room. “I still have a libido, albeit a very low one compared to yours, and occasional sexual urges that I have found it is far easier and far more interesting to sate with you than by myself. And I still have a desire for companionship. I believe you do understand me, Sebastian, when I say that I am by nature the solitary sort, but even so… I do not wish to be alone all the time.”

     “But…” Moran narrows his eyes slightly again in contemplation. He stands up and hesitantly begins to approach the sofa. “Professor, there’s still a world of difference between not wanting to be alone and agreeing to have a romantic relationship with someone you don’t feel any romantic pull towards.” Moran stops in front of the professor and runs a hand through his own hair, pushing it back off his forehead. “I don’t want you to end up agreeing to things you don’t really want.”

     “I am hardly the sort to do that.” Moriarty pats the seat cushion beside him. “Come here, sit down.”

     Moran sits obediently, glancing over at Moriarty’s face as he does so. “When you told me what you are, I s’pose I wasn’t really surprised. I guess I always knew you were something like that even if I never knew the words for ‘em ‘til then. But what does surprise me, sir, is you saying you still want to have this romantic relationship with me.”

     “I am willing to try it.”

     “For my sake?”

     “For your sake; to indulge my own curiosity; to indulge my desire for committed companionship.” Moriarty takes Moran’s hand in his, drawing it over, interlacing their fingers. “Moran, while I can never speak for all aromantic people, I am not myself repulsed by even the merest mention of romance. I am not averse, at least in theory, to participating in certain romantically coded gestures. It is simply that… I have never myself experienced any desire to participate in such acts. I have no ‘innate instinct’ for such things – for really any form of physical intimacy.”

     “That’s why you never wanted to kiss?”

     “I suppose so.”

     Moran looks down at his own highly-polished boots. “I wanted you for so long, you know,” he confesses. “I mean, not just the sex. I wanted things beside that – for you to kiss me; to hold me sometimes after; even just to sleep beside you. Stupid things maybe; things I’d likely never admit to wanting to anyone else. And I kept hoping and hoping that you’d realise that I was… that I wanted more and you’d tell me you felt the same after all, but you never did and I thought… that must mean you didn’t want anything like that.”

     Moriarty squeezes Moran’s hand gently. “I never knew, Sebastian, honestly. I truly had no idea how strongly you felt; how could I?”

    “Because you’re aromantic.” Moran’s tone of voice sounds perfectly calm, without any of the scorn or disbelief or contempt Moriarty is more used to hearing in the voices of those few others he has told of his sexual or romantic leanings.

    “Yes.”

    “But if you’re asexual too then how’d you know I wanted sex with you?”

    Moriarty smirks slightly at this question. “Moran, really, you were hardly subtle about that. Even _I_ could grasp that from all those lingering looks you gave me when you believed I wasn’t looking that you were longing to couple with me. And, well, you had a rather… shall we say… _colourful_ sexual history.”

    Moran chuckles at this. “I suppose so. But, still…” He becomes serious after a moment. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner what you are? That you’re asexual, or aromantic? Both?”

     “I suppose I was afraid,” Moriarty answers simply.

     “Afraid of me?”

     “No, not precisely, only that… some people do not react well to such revelations. I am not suggesting that our experiences are entirely alike but I am sure you understand that some people react with derision or denial to anything other than the notion that ‘gay’ and ‘straight’ are the only possible options. They believe that there can be no in betweens; nothing that involves multiple or all gender options; nothing that involves none of them. Add to that the fact that in our society a lack of sexual feeling is widely pathologised and considered to be primarily a symptom of physical or mental sickness, something that must be _cured_ …” Moriarty seems to shudder slightly at this thought.

     “I don’t think you need to be cured, sir,” Moran tells him. “I’d never think that were sick or wrong and I’d never…” He seems to realise suddenly the true meaning behind such words. “I’d _never_ force myself on you, or anyone, ever. God, I still feel bad about kissing you like that the first time.”

     Moriarty glances at him abruptly again, realising that his words have perhaps suggested something that he in no way intended. “You should not feel bad for that. It was an impulsive act but I never felt threatened by you. I know you would never force yourself upon me.” And that is true. For all that Moran can be violent and hot-tempered at times; for all that there is an unmistakably predatory air about him, always Moriarty has felt safe in Moran’s company. “It is simply that… I was still afraid that it might change things between us somehow. That deep down, no matter what you said, you could not truly believe me, or that you would believe me but that you would be disappointed in me perhaps.”

     “You could never disappoint me.”

     “I’m sure I can.”

     “Never, sir.” Moran gently takes the professor’s hand in his.

     “You still, I think, want more from me than I can give to you.”

     “I want _you_ , in whatever way you’re willing to give yourself to me.” Moran now squeezes Moriarty’s right hand, holding it gently but firmly, reassuring him with the touch and the constrained strength of his grip. “If that meant we did nothing more than, I don’t know, just hold hands, then I’d be all right with that, if that’s all you were comfortable with. Professor…” He rests his other hand on top of Moriarty’s right, so that that hand is completely enclosed within Moran’s two hands. “James… I may not understand everything about you directly, but I was scared too.”

     “You, a man who has been to war? Who has faced down tiger poachers intent on murdering you? And injured tigers wanting to maul you? _You_ were afraid?” Moriarty asks, though not wholly seriously, for he knows Moran’s courage does not mean he never feels fear, only that he is generally very good at mastering his fears.

    “Yes sir, I was, and still am, I s’pose.”

    “Afraid of what?”

    “That you’d not want me, not really; that you want someone cleverer than me; someone who understands all that higher mathematics and gives a damn about astronomy and that; someone posher. Also… well it’s like you said, about gay and straight being seen as the only options. A lot of people don’t like bisexuality; a lot of people don’t even believe it’s real.”

     “I have never denied it is real,” Moriarty points out. “I knew you were bisexual when I employed you; I accepted that.”

     “Yes sir, I know that, but like you also said, you can say one thing but deep down not really believe it. I’ve been with people - in the past, I mean – who I thought accepted it but afterwards they just called me gay or straight, as if fucking one single person defines my whole sexuality, and then others, oh they believe in bisexuality all right but they think if you’re bi that means you’re greedy and you want it all all of the time so you must be a cheat too, but then with most of ‘em, well I hardly cared what they thought of me, they didn’t matter, but you… you matter. I was scared, Professor, that even though you seemed accepting maybe deep down you’d still think I was lying or in denial or something; that I’d just end up running off with some woman in the end or that I’d cheat on you with anyone who so much as looked at me a certain way and so you’d not want to involve yourself with me further.”

      “Moran, I am not interested in someone ‘cleverer’ than you,” Moriarty tells him in a firm tone. “And believe me, my dove, you are yourself a highly intelligent man. I am not interested in someone more ‘posh’ than you either, and as for your sexual orientation, I believe in it; I accept it, and I do not believe you to be a cheat at anything other than card games.”

    This manages to draw another laugh out of Moran.

    “Come here.” Moriarty clasps Moran’s hand, guiding him, drawing Moran over to sit practically in his lap.

    Moran steadies himself with his hand on the professor’s shoulder as he looks into Moriarty’s eyes.

     “I can’t pretend to know what the future holds for us,” Moriarty tells him, resting his hands against Moran’s lean hips. “We are two very different men in many ways, but in others… it seems we are far more alike than it might seem on the surface – in our fears and our doubts. I don’t know that I can give you everything you crave, but I am intrigued to experiment further, with other forms of intimacy.”

     Moran laughs again. “You make it sound so _scientific_.”

     Moriarty smiles warmly. “I am a mathematician; it is in my nature to be scientific,” he points out. “Although I’m not sure any of this has very much to do with science, or with reason and logic.”

     Moran’s amusement fades, a look of serious contemplation crossing his features in its place. “I just don’t want you to feel like… you have to compromise in some way. I mean… I was reading about how some asexuals feel pressured into having sex they don’t really want, just to keep their partners happy.”

     “My willingness to experiment is no compromise.”

     “It just don’t seem entirely fair, if you don’t feel for me what I feel for you but you’re agreeing to what I want anyway.”

     “You’re saying you would give up sex entirely if I did not want it, are you?” Moriarty asks.

     “Yes Professor,” Moran replies, with perfect seriousness. “I mean… I’m not saying it’d be easy but I’d rather do that than feel I was… well… molesting you in some way.”

     Moriarty regards Moran thoughtfully, as if seeing his companion in a new light suddenly. “You are a peculiarly compassionate and sentimental soul, Sebastian.”

     Moran narrows his eyes slightly. “I’m not sure if you just insulted me or not.”

    “It was no insult. I find it rather endearing.”

     “Oh.”

     “I am very fond of you Sebastian,” Moriarty tells him, brushing a lock of hair away from Moran’s forehead. “Whether that will turn out to be enough for you in the long run, I have no idea, but I would hope that at least it provides us with a starting point, yes?”

     “Yes Professor.”

     “And from now on, if you want to know something about what I want or don’t want, please, ask me.”

      “Right sir.”

      “Oh and Moran?” Moriarty leans forward slightly, fixing his gaze intently upon his companion’s, almost as if he is on the verge of making some profound declaration.

     “Mm?”

     “ _Have_ you seen my slippers?” Moriarty asks with a grin, and Moran bursts out laughing. 


	3. Chapter 3

_In which a friend of Moriarty’s may not be such a good friend after all_

 

     It is late in the afternoon and though the campus is rarely entirely quiet, most of the students have now gone elsewhere and Moriarty is on the verge of heading home himself. His satchel stands on his desk, packed and ready to go; there remains only the task of putting a few books he referenced in his last lecture back in their place in his office’s bookshelf. He is engaged in this trivial task when there is a knock on the office door.

    “Come in,” he calls from his position kneeling on the floor. He slots the last book in amongst its companions before turning his head to glance over his shoulder. “Ah, John,” he says as a man enters, and he stands up, brushing a little dust off his trouser knees.

     John Stubbs is relatively new to the university’s staff - still new enough for the more tedious and irritating aspects of the job not to have managed to take the edge off his enthusiasm for it. He is perhaps not entirely Moriarty’s sort of associate, being a lecturer upon geography rather than mathematics and being much younger too but he seems to be an amiable enough chap and Moriarty has found they get along rather well.

     “Hello James,” Stubbs says, carefully closing the door behind him before he approaches Moriarty.

    “Something I can do for you?” Moriarty enquires, returning to his desk, though he remains standing in front of it.

     “No, I was just passing. I have a little time to kill before my bus is due.”

    “Time, Mr Stubbs, is a very precious resource and should hardly be wasted,” Moriarty remarks, and then laughs softly at this. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to lecture you.”

     Stubbs laughs also, watching Moriarty’s face as he does so. “No, you’re right, life is far too short.” He takes a step closer, dropping his gaze slightly. “Perhaps… that’s really why I’m here.”

     “Oh?” Moriarty narrows his eyes, somewhat perplexed by how Stubbs continues to advance towards him.

     “When an opportunity comes along, one should seize it, don’t you think?”

     “I suppose so.”

    “Because what if you miss that opportunity, and that’s it, you never get another, and then you’re left wondering your entire life what might have been?”

     Moriarty smiles but his smile seems a tad strained around the edges. “This sounds rather serious, John. Are you quite well?”

     “Yes.” Stubbs gazes off sideways for a moment before allowing his gaze to drift back to rest upon Moriarty’s face. He stands only inches away from him now, shifting slightly on the spot. “James, I… I wanted to ask you if… if you would like to go out with me for dinner.”

      Moriarty takes a step backwards, moving around the desk to take his seat. “Dinner?” It seems such an innocuous word, yet he senses from Stubbs’ manner that this is about far more than simply accompanying him for a meal.

     “Yes, you know…” Smiling still, Stubbs leans over and plants both his palms upon the desktop. “We go to a restaurant, we order food and wine; we eat and drink and then, well…” He lets the possibilities hang in the air, unspoken, and even Moriarty has a fair idea of what else Stubbs may have in mind there.

     “I, ah...” Moriarty looks down, clearing his throat. “Forgive me if I am being obtuse but am I to take it that what you are proposing is…” He raises his eyes to meet Stubbs’s intense stare. “Some manner of _date_?”

     “Yes,” Stubbs replies, his smile beginning to crack a little now. “I mean… I may be being a little too presumptive but I have every reason to think that…”

     “That what?”

     “That you’re gay.”

     “I’m not gay, not really.”

     Stubbs straightens up immediately. “Oh? But you…”

     “I am an aromantic asexual.”

     Stubbs laughs. “And what the hell’s that mean?”

     “That means I do not experience romantic or sexual attraction to any gender.” Moriarty says this perfectly calmly, pointedly ignoring the scornful look that flickers across Stubbs’s face. “Nonetheless, I do have a male partner.”

     “Mr _Moran_ ,” Stubbs says scathingly, almost spitting the name out, seeming to ignore the rest of Moriarty’s comments now in his haste to demean Moran. “Yeah, I’ve seen him around, sauntering about like he owns this place, and like he owns you too. Arrogant fellow.”

    “Perhaps so. Still, Moran and I are… involved. I cannot date you.”

     Now Stubbs laughs in a manner that is almost violent, making even the usually stoic Moriarty flinch slightly. “Why’d you want to get _involved_ with him?” Stubbs demands. “The man flirts with anything in a skirt; he’s probably shagging half those women behind your back and laughing about it with them. You think you can trust a bi guy? He’s practically _straight_.”

     Moriarty rises to his feet at once. “Mr Stubbs,” he says sharply. “I appreciate that having not received the answer you desired you may presently be in an unusually emotional state which makes you speak in a way you do not actually mean-”

    Stubbs barks out another laugh.

    “Even so, I will _not_ tolerate you speaking so,” Moriarty says. “Your language is unacceptable. How dare you speak of Moran, or any other bisexual person for that matter, in such a way?”

    “Perhaps you can’t stand to hear the truth,” Stubbs sneers. “You think your precious Sebastian really cares about you? You think he’s _faithful_?”

     “You, I suppose, truly care for me then?” Moriarty queries wryly, arching an eyebrow.

    “Yes, I do.” Stubbs moves around the desk, coming to a stop right before Moriarty again. “I love you James.”

     Moriarty backs away, trying to put some more distance between him and the younger man. “You have a strange way of showing that if you think to win me over by insulting my partner and questioning my judgement.”

    “He’s not worthy of you!”

    “And you are?”

   “Yes!” Stubbs lunges forward, only just stopping short of throwing himself entirely upon Moriarty. “Yes, James, I am.”

   “A man who reacts to rejection with vindictiveness and bigotry? I think not.” Moriarty eyes Stubbs with contempt. “I had thought you were a reasonable man, Mr Stubbs, but now it seems I was mistaken on that. Even if I had no partner already I assure you, I would not have a  _scrap_ of interest in dating you.”

   “Then why’d you lead me on?”

   “I beg your pardon?”

   “Come off it, playing the innocent; you invite me in for all those cosy little chats, you took it upon yourself to give me a tour of the campus when I first arrived; you come into my lectures with the most trivial excuses just so you can see me.”

    Moriarty recollects a single occasion when he had need to enter into one of Stubbs’s classes, having accidentally left his favourite pen in the lecture theatre in the previous class; other than that he can think of nothing that even comes close to what Stubbs is claiming. “I fear you are delusional, Mr Stubbs,” he says.

    “What, like you?” Stubbs says sharply. “Hiding behind made up words like ‘asexual’ and ‘aromantic’? What does that mean really, that you’re frigid? What are you, pushing fifty and still a virgin? Well don’t you worry, I can fix that. Have you ever even fucked Sebastian? Is that why he cheats on you?” He laughs as he drags his hands through his blond hair, tousling it wildly.

    “Moran is no cheat,” Moriarty says fiercely, his fury barely concealed. “How  _dare_ you come in here, spouting your accusations and insults? Get out!” He marches over towards the door, intending to open it and drag Stubbs out by force if needs be.

    But he doesn’t make it even halfway before Stubbs seizes him, dragging him back and shoving him up against the bookcase. Perhaps it is fear, perhaps it is rage, but there are a few seconds when the normally so poised and controlled and composed Professor Moriarty, a talented amateur boxer in his youth and still even now possessing some skill in that regard, cannot move; cannot even think. All he knows is that Stubbs’s mouth is clamped over his and Stubbs’s hand is trying to work its way inside his trousers but like the rabbit supposedly trapped in the headlights of the approaching car, he freezes. He is unaware even of the movement behind Stubbs.

    “What the hell are you doing? Get the fuck off him!” someone roars behind the younger man. Stubbs is wrenched violently backwards, dragged around to confront an enraged Moran, before Moran swiftly punches Stubbs hard in the face, knocking him flat to the floor. “Don’t you fucking touch him!” Moran snarls, and drives his booted foot into Stubbs’s backside, causing him to curl in upon himself and whimper.

    “Moran!” Moriarty cries, stepping forward, putting a hand on his lover’s arm, realising that if he does not end this swiftly then Moran will murder Stubbs right here and now. Concealing a murder is the very last thing he needs to be doing today. “Stop, Sebastian. He is not worth it.”

     “Too right he’s not worth it, but I should kick the shit out of him anyway.” Moran punctuates his words with a further kick to Stubbs’s ribs, but in deference to the professor this kick has no real force behind it.

     Moriarty takes a deep breath before moving to stand over the still whimpering Stubbs. “Get out now Mr Stubbs, and never come near me again.”

     Stubbs glances up at him, blood trickling from his nose. He sees a mask of calm on Moriarty’s face but when he looks at Moran he sees fury and hatred is still written plainly there in the colonel’s cold blue eyes. “Fine,” he says, struggling to get to his feet, trying to maintain some shred of dignity as he leaves. “The pair of you deserve each other anyway!”

     Moran watches him intently until he is out the door, though Moriarty glances away. The instant that Stubbs closes the door, the professor lets out a long, tremulous sigh.

      “Professor.” Moran’s look switches at once from venomous to one of pure concern. He moves to touch Moriarty’s arm, then seems to wonder if this would be welcomed under the circumstances.

     “I’m all right.” Moriarty glances at him, managing a weak smile. “I am perfectly all right.” He reaches and takes Moran’s hand, squeezing it. “Don’t worry about me, pigeon.”

    Moran notices the slight tremor in the professor’s hand but decides not to comment on it. “I heard some of what he said; I saw what he was doing to you.”

    “While I am certain that if you had not burst in like that I would have managed to throw him off myself imminently, I confess there was a moment or two then when I simply froze and could do nothing.”

    “ _I’ll kill him_ ,” Moran says fiercely, an icy fury permeating his voice again. “I will, Professor.”

     “Not today, please.”

    “I should have broken all of his fucking fingers for daring to try to touch you like that.”

     “Your anger on my behalf does you credit, Sebastian, but please… leave him be for now. Just…” Moriarty turns away slightly, clearly vexed. It pains him to admit how much his own brief helplessness has shaken him; how much he wants his companion’s touch right now; how much he wants to be simply held in Moran’s arms – held by someone he can truly trust, who bears him no ill-will and thinks only of how to keep him safe and happy. “Moran, would you…” He closes his eyes tightly, still unable to put his need into words, but somehow – Moriarty cannot grasp how – Moran understands anyway.

     “It’s all right,” Moran says, drawing the professor to him, sliding his arms around him, letting Moriarty sink his head upon his shoulder. The colonel says nothing more, feeling that to say anything else would seem pointless, even condescending rather than a comfort. His very presence seems comfort enough.

     They remain there for a minute or two before Moriarty finally gently pulls back, letting out a shorter, wearied sigh. “Sebastian,” he says, going to pick up his satchel from the desk.

    “Yes sir?”

    “Please, take me home.”


	4. Chapter 4

_The aftermath of Moriarty’s encounter with Stubbs_

 

    Moran sits on the sofa, flicking idly through the television channels, finally settling on some nature documentary about lions. His attention though seems less focused on the humorous antics of the lion cubs or on the prowling lionesses as they hunt their prey and more on the professor. Every few minutes he looks down at Moriarty, knowing that to comment would probably be unwelcome, but concerned nonetheless. Moriarty has said little about anything at all since they got home and Moran dare not press him on the matter of Stubbs’s behaviour.

    Usually in an evening Moriarty will sit and read the newspaper or a book or else retreat to his private study to do whatever it is he does in there but tonight he lies in a most uncharacteristic pose, on his side upon the sofa, his head resting upon Moran’s lap. He too appears to be watching the lions on the screen but in truth he pays little attention to them. He is aware, both from Moran’s hand resting upon him and the not infrequent slight shifts of the colonel’s body as Moran looks down at him, that Moran is concerned about him. There is a part of him that is glad of the simple reassurance of Moran’s touch; of the comforting warmth of Moran’s body, and he is grateful too that for all Moran’s worries, the colonel holds his tongue and does not press him to talk. But there is another part that hates himself for wanting to let himself be held and reassured. He should take himself off to his study or out for a walk; he should not _need_ to be comforted; he should not allow Stubbs’s words or behaviour to bother him so. The man is inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.

    Considering things though, as finally the credits of the documentary roll over the screen, he wonders if it was not so much Stubbs’s words directed towards him, nor even the forced kiss and attempted groping, that vex him so much as what Stubbs said about Moran.

   “Do you want the TV on still?” Moran asks.

   “No, turn it off.”

    Moran presses the stand-by button on the remote control, turning the screen black. “I should get dinner ready,” he says, though he makes no move beyond putting the remote control down on the arm of the sofa.

    “I’m not hungry,” Moriarty says.

    “You should eat something, sir. I was going to do us a stir-fry.”

    “Right, you do that,” Moriarty says softly, almost completely indifferently. He sits up, allowing Moran to get up and wander into the kitchen. He notices that still Moran glances back at him for a second or two before he moves out of sight.

    Several minutes of the sounds of fridge and cupboard doors opening and closing, water running and splashing and the clatter of cooking implements ensues before Moriarty decides he is in no mood to watch inane television shows or go off and do something else to try to pointlessly occupy his mind. Instead he slides off the sofa and heads into the kitchen himself. Never usually a room that interests him much, now he has to admit that there is something pleasant about the atmosphere in here – the warmth of the room; the sounds of food preparation; the aromas of cooking oil and spices.

    He stands in the doorway for a moment, watching Moran’s back as he works. The colonel is cutting up strips of raw beef along with ginger, chillies and garlic while the large frying pan heats up. Their dog Tiger sits on the floor nearby, watching him intently, hoping for a stray piece of beef to come his way whilst to Moran’s right is a heap of chopped yellow pepper, spring onions and sugar-snap peas which he has already prepared. Pausing with his knife hovering over the steak, he glances back at the professor.

    “You all right, sir?”

    “Perfectly well. Pretend I’m not here.” Moriarty slides into one of the seats at the large wooden table.

    “That’d be rather rude of me.” Nonetheless Moran continues slicing the beef into strips and Moriarty watches his rapid, deft movements; each precise cut of the wickedly sharp knife; each flash of the blade before it is buried in the meat. There is something oddly entrancing about the rhythm of it and his speed with the knife is most impressive. In the earlier days of their acquaintance Moriarty had not been surprised to learn that the colonel was just as skilful with a chef’s knife as he is with a gun. It seemed apt somehow that Moran would be a highly capable cook as well as a skilled assassin.  “Do you…” Moran begins after a time, keeping his back to the professor, not breaking the rhythm of his chopping. “Do you want to talk about what happened?” He pauses, turning to face Moriarty again, the knife still clasped in his hand.

    Moriarty places his neatly-manicured hands, palms down, on the table top and stares at the empty space between them. “I was a fool,” he says.

    “Why?”

    “To trust Stubbs even slightly; to think he was simply my friend; to have been so oblivious to his true feelings for me.”

    “Professor, it wasn’t your fault, what he did.”

    “Was it not?”

    “No sir. Just being friendly with someone ain’t automatically an invitation for them to get in your pants.” Moran holds his gaze until Moriarty looks away. Only then does Moran turn his attention back towards the heavy frying pan and pours a little oil into it before tossing in the first ingredients, which sizzle and give off a stronger aroma as they begin to cook. “The man’s an asshole,” he remarks, stirring the beef about with the spatula.

    Tiger, perhaps concerned by Moran’s sharp tone (or perhaps simply realising all of the beef has gone into the pan and is not heading towards his mouth) wanders over towards the table and presses his head against Moriarty’s knee.

    “Moran, please, mind your language,” Moriarty murmurs in mock consternation. He idly pets Tiger’s broad head.

    “Well he is.”

    Moriarty manages a faint smile at this. “True,” he says. “He said some rather vile things about you.”

    Moran glances over at him again. “Oh?”

   “He claims that you flirt with every woman you meet; that you are probably having sex with many of them behind my back; that since you are, as he puts it, ‘practically straight’ then you are untrustworthy.” Moriarty notes the brief clenching of Moran’s fingers around the handle of the spatula and how Moran draws in a long breath, holding it for some seconds before exhaling.

    “And what did you say?”

    “That such claims were unacceptable. I will not have anyone speak of you in such a way, Sebastian.”

    A brief, rather bitter smile flashes across Moran’s face. “I’ve heard it all before,” he says, reaching to toss a handful of bean-sprouts into the pan with the beef. “If not always the same precise words, the same sentiment. Bisexuality ain’t real; bisexuals are greedy; we’re all cheats; we’re just indecisive and need to pick a side; we’re just straight; we’re just gay and in denial; so on and so forth. Hear them enough and they don’t matter much any more.”

    “They don’t bother you?”

    Moran turns to face him fully. “If I thought you believed ‘em, then they’d still bother me.”

    “I do not believe such things.”

    “Well then.” Moran turns back to splash soy sauce and a squeeze of lime juice into the pan.

    “Well then what?” Moriarty looks at his turned back again, somewhat perplexed by his companion’s lack of reaction.

    “Well then, what he said about me don’t bother me much. Of course I despise him for it, but I am far more concerned about what he did to you.”

    “I can take care of myself, Sebastian.”

    “I know, but I’m still allowed to be concerned.”

    “My sweet boy.” Moriarty drops his hands into his lap and stares at them. “Sebastian, do you think… that I am frigid?”

    “That’s what he called you?”

    “Mm.”

    “No, I don’t. All right, maybe you have this air about you overall of… you being a bit aloof and sort of old-fashioned, but that’s just your way, ain’t it? I know you, you’re not cold really – you have passions, and, well... ” Moran smiles at the recollections of some of their past sexual encounters. “You’re not frigid, Professor. Anyway, even if you were, even if you thought sex was the most terrifying thing in the entire world, how the hell is that any of his damned business?  It’s none of his concern what you do in private and he has no right to say anything to you about it.”

    “Yes, you’re right, I suppose.”

    “That bastard needs a good seeing to. He tried it on with you, and what if he tries the same thing with someone else? Someone who can’t protect themselves?”

    “So what do you propose to do?”

    Moran smirks slightly as he begins to stir-fry the remaining vegetables. “I have a few ideas.”

    “Moran,” Moriarty says in a warning tone.

    “Yes sir?” Moran says sweetly, rearranging his features into an expression of total innocence before looking towards the professor.

    “Do nothing impulsive; I will not have you being arrested for murder or grievous bodily harm.”

    “I’ll be careful,” Moran says, smirking again. “Scout’s honour.”

     “You were never a boy scout.”

     “Damn, so I wasn’t.” Moran grins as he adds fresh Chinese noodles to the pan, splashing in a little more soy sauce before tossing everything together.

    Moriarty stands up, going to fetch two placemats and two sets of cutlery from the side drawer first, then a chilled bottle of wine and two glasses. He pours wine while Moran finishes up cooking the stir-fry and divides it up onto two warmed plates. Tiger, meanwhile, has settled himself under the table, still hopeful of receiving scraps.

    “My loyal Moran, ever my devoted servant,” Moriarty murmurs softly, taking his seat again.

   “Always, Professor.” Moran gives him a fleeting, pleased smile as he sits down opposite Moriarty.

    “It does look and smell quite delicious,” Moriarty confesses, realising that he actually feels rather hungry now after all. He picks up his knife and fork but still only stares at the plate of food for a few seconds. “Sebastian,” he says eventually. “Even though I could have got rid of him myself, I am still grateful, you know.” Absently he twirls a noodle around his fork. “For seeing him off, I mean, and, well, for everything else.”

    Moran is presently engaged in eating a mouthful of stir-fry, but his eyes still show his smile at this remark. He carefully swallows the food before speaking again. “Eat your dinner before it gets cold,” he says.

   As expressions of love go it doesn’t sound like much, Moriarty thinks, but then it is appropriate for them somehow, and it actually says volumes. After flashing Moran another fleeting but warm smile in return, Moriarty begins to eat his dinner.


End file.
